


Nothing More Important

by Hekate1308



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 12:50:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1899654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekate1308/pseuds/Hekate1308
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had been invited to John's stag night but had decided not to go. Written for a tumblr challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing More Important

He had been invited to John's stag night but had decided not to go.

Even though he felt ashamed to admit it, one of the reasons was that he didn't like Mary. She was nice enough, and they adored each other. Greg couldn't understand why he disapproved until Sherlock called him into the flat, showing him the book on best man's speeches, looking panicked.

He couldn't understand how John could pick this life over Sherlock. It was a crazy reason, but it was the truth. The consulting detective had come back from the dead and he couldn't think of anything more important than that.

Then again, he had almost ruined his career because of his loyalty to the strange man he had found kneeling beside a body, high, years ago. Maybe he wasn't the best man to judge John's decisions.

But he couldn't understand what good it would do to have Sherlock go through normal motions – like stag night, or being the best man. Sherlock didn't do normal, and he was uncomfortable giving speeches. He would do well, of course – in his own fashion, which probably meant he wouldn't do so well after all, but he would do it. But that wasn't the point.

So, even though he wouldn't have anything against seeing Sherlock drunk – he still kept the video he'd made when the consulting detective had been drugged and he'd brought him home and sometimes watched it when he needed to lighten his mood – he declined and drove to the Diogenes Club after work.

He had no reason to think Mycroft would be there; he kept a regular schedule if there was no international emergency, and he never was to be found at the Club after eight pm. But he was already half-way there when he realized where he was going, so he decided to stop by anyway.

The footman knew him and to his surprise led him into the visitor's room.

Mycroft was there, two glasses of brandy ready on the table, and Greg wondered if he had been told that the DI was on his way to the Club.

"Mycroft".

"Greg".

It had taken time until Mycroft had started calling him by his first name, but eventually, shortly before Sherlock returned, he had. They had been occasionally drinking brandy together for over a year at this point, and Greg had thought that he would never use his first name. He had been so surprised that he'd taken a few seconds to react.

Their friendship, for lack of a better word, had started when Greg had visited him in his office one afternoon to give him his condolences. It had been two weeks after Sherlock's funeral, and he had been going crazy. John was numb, too numb to speak, not picking up the phone, and without the consulting detective's texts and insults, the day seemed surprisingly long. Especially since he was suspended.

Mycroft had mistaken his intentions and assured him that he would soon be working again. Greg had snapped.

He had started to scream, scream about Sherlock's death, that it was his fault, that he should never have believed Donovan and Anderson, and that he couldn't stand how everyone just pretended it hadn't happened, that John didn't talk about it and Mrs. Hudson had already begun cleaning the flat, that his colleagues walked on eggshells around him. During his rant, he had understood why he had come.

He was guilty of Sherlock's death, and he needed someone who was equally guilty to unload.

John had told him, the first time he had seen him after Sherlock's death, that Mycroft had told Moriarty his brother's life story.

So his visit had led to him not giving his condolences, but rather Mycroft comforting him. Or rather, Mycroft offering him a glass of brandy and sitting opposite him while he drank it.

This had led to more meetings like this, meetings where Greg talked about his ex-wife and Sherlock and his job once he had been reinstated, Mycroft silently keeping him company. Only occasionally making a remark.

He needed it.

He had never realized how big a part of his life Sherlock had become. He was alone and still reaching for his phone whenever a strange case presented itself; still driving towards Baker Street before remembering, remembering his blood on the pavement.

Sometimes, after a case involving drugs or when the night was foggy, he wondered if it would be another danger night.

And then he fought the temptation to throw something against the wall.

He wasn't sure why Mycroft put up with him. He obviously didn't mourn his brother. Now he knew that he hadn't, because he had known Sherlock was alive.

He must be fond of him in a way, though, because he had called him by his first name before the consulting detective returned, and Greg had decided, as soon as he got the call, that holding a grudge wouldn't do any good. Mycroft would never do something that endangered his brother; he should have known; the British Government had known Sherlock was alive. Being angry wouldn't change that.

And if Mycroft, for some unfathomable reason, valued his company, he wouldn't deprive him of it.

Their meetings had continued after Sherlock had come back. None of them had commented on it, so he wasn't sure if the consulting detective knew he was friends with his brother.

They had developed a routine of sorts. In the evening, he would go to Mycroft's house. And yet he had waited for him at the Diogenes Club.

Without using any words, this told him enough. On John's stag night, Mycroft had waited for him.

Greg took the glass and sat down opposite the elder Holmes. Aside from his complaints or stories, they didn't talk much.

Tonight, it was different.

"You didn't go to John's stag night" Mycroft said. It was unusual of him to talk first. Normally, Greg complained, and he listened.

"No" he said simply. He didn't elaborate why. Mycroft could probably deduce it.

He nodded.

"I have received an invitation to the wedding."

"You did?" he asked, not bothering to hide his surprise. He and John weren't friends. The only explanation could be that –

"Sherlock wants me to be there".

He wasn't surprised. Nothing surprised him anymore when it came to the brothers' strange relationship.

He didn't have to ask why. Sherlock didn't want this marriage, he was sure. Just like most of John's friends.

He had met Mike Stamford a few days ago, and the teacher had greeted him and explained that he couldn't come to the wedding.

He hadn't looked sorry.

Mrs. Hudson was worried because marriage changed everything, as she had explained to the DI, and Molly wasn't sure Sherlock could make the speech.

Was it selfish of him to wish that John and Mary didn't get married? But he was putting Sherlock's happiness before everything, not his own, so he wasn't being selfish –

Greg sighed and brought his hand up to rub his face.

"Is there – " he stopped when he realized he was going to ask if there was anything Mycroft could do to stop this. He was appalled at himself. He shouldn't think like this.

"Mary Morstan is a nurse" Mycroft answered. "She has been living in London for two years. She was born in Exeter, her parents are deceased."

He continued listing facts about Mary's life, and Greg knew what he wanted to tell him. Mary was good for John. She was.

She was good for the doctor. John deserved someone like her, had always wanted a family.

Greg was just surprised because he considered Sherlock enough family for anyone.

The other thing he learned through Mycroft's monologue he'd already suspected.

The elder Holmes wasn't looking forward to the marriage either. Most would have assumed that this had to do with danger nights, but Greg knew he cared about his brother.

To lighten the mood, he asked, "Do you have a picture? I would like to know what they are up to".

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and didn't answer. Greg saw the small glint in his eyes and knew he had said the right thing.

They sipped on their brandy silently until Mycroft's phone chimed.

"They have returned to Baker Street."

"Already? They can't have been out for more than – "

"They are drunk".

Mycroft pronounced the word as if it was an insult, and Greg hid a smile. John was sneaky when he wanted to be, and he had probably got Sherlock drunk simply for the enjoyment of it.

He downed his glass when he remembered that this wasn't as funny as it sounded. It marked the end of an era.

He was being melodramatic now, but found he didn't care. Sherlock was special. What he and John had was special.

He didn't want Sherlock to go back to the time before John. He remembered danger nights, racing to his flat when he got Mycroft's call, he remembered dangerous stunts and screaming at witnesses.

He would have to drop in at Baker Street more often, he decided.

When he caught Mycroft's eyes, he knew that the other man was thinking the same.

He finished his brandy and returned home, still concerned but at least certain that someone else was looking out for Sherlock as well.

That didn't stop him from leaving his flat determined to speak to them as loudly as possible when he was informed the next morning that Sherlock and John were in jail.


End file.
